


funeral casket for my childhood

by perennials



Category: Gintama
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Gen, three fifths kagunobu and two fifths yorozuya angst yo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-19
Updated: 2016-03-19
Packaged: 2018-05-27 15:44:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6290431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perennials/pseuds/perennials
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You've got to grow up./Please move on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	funeral casket for my childhood

**Author's Note:**

> to clear some things up, i aged Kagura and Nobume up and brought their ages closer together so they're both around 20 in the present- Shinpachi's 22/23. In the lil bit in the middle with a ton of italicized text (aka, The Flashback) Kagura's 16, Shinpachi is self-explanatory, and Gintoki's either in his late twenties or early thirties.

The fan stops working on Sunday. It’d been sputtering along weakly like an old man with creaky bones for a good few weeks, but this Sunday in particular is a little too hot and humid, and so with a final burst of energy it blows the receipt for last night’s dinner (bacon and cheese chips, two-fifty) out the window and then dies. Kagura holds a funeral for the dead thing just because it looks so sad- dissects the rusty machine, puts it in a dusty shoebox, even lights a little scented candle for it- a truly noble and kind act, if she doesn't say so herself. In the end, though, it still ends up in the trash bag along with the aforementioned chips, and is unceremoniously flung out onto the street the next day.

Shinpachi calls on Monday morning and says he'll come visit sometime this week.

A week later the fan is gone and Nobume is sitting in the cramped living room, on Kagura's sofa, with a 500ml bottle of Kagura's expensive peach juice (the stuff she saves just for special occasions), baking in the suffocating heat of the tiny apartment with her shoulder pressed nonchalantly against hers. She manages to look not only incredibly comfortable but also stunning (like a runway model, almost), even with her slim limbs bunched together on the sofa and her eyes cold marble. Kagura’s not sure if she wants to kick her or kiss her. Maybe it’s both.

"You," Nobume says when she's finished sucking the straw dry, "need a new fan." She wipes the sweat off her forehead with one hand, and somehow even that simple movement seems as graceful and measured as a dancer's. Kagura's eyes are drawn unwillingly to the cloudy blue of her nails.

Why of course she needs a new fan, without a doubt she needs a new fan, she _knows_ she needs a new fan like she needs a new hairbrush and a new pair of shoes and a new job and a new smile, new face, maybe a new body to go, too. This Kagura's done, screwed up one too many times, and now she's damaged goods. Someone light a scented candle for her, please, and take her out with the trash. She needs a do-over for life.

"Money," she says simply.

"What happened to the previous one?"

"It broke."

"I might be able to fix it."

Kagura laughs. "I threw it out." She slides off the sofa and flops resignedly onto the ratty carpet.

Nobume offers no comment but stretches out like a cat, graciously occupying what had previously been Kagura's seat along with her own.

"Even the fan hates me," Kagura mumbles. "I maintain, no, _care_ for you for three whole years and you just decide to _die_ on me like that?" She eyes the corner of the room accusingly. The dust has come to settle over everything like a particularly shitty instagram filter, but there's a clean, dust-free circle on the floor that had previously been occupied by that rusty old fan. "We had to scrape together three months' worth of 'savings' just to get that."

"I could buy you a new one, if you'd like," Nobume offers.

"Pay me back for that juice first, it cost five bucks." Kagura rolls over on her back and stares at the ceiling. It's littered with fault lines that run jagged from one end to the other, converging in places and splitting apart at others. Judging from the way it's spinning, the heat's going to send her to the other side really soon if the lack of proper food and motivation doesn't get to her first.

Nobume gets off the sofa. As she navigates a sea of crumpled candy wrappers to the fridge, she calls over her shoulder, "sure." With a flourish of her hand, she produces a bag of groceries from some hidden pocket (dimension) in her jacket and starts bustling around at the counter. Kagura follows her across the room with her eyes— flashing blue hair, chiffon-white tank-top, striped red socks and all. The gorgeous demon's making lunch (or is it dinner? What time is it, actually? She's never been big on knowing the time, or keeping up with the days of the week that keep slipping out of her hands like quicksand) in her rundown one-room apartment. What a bizarre sight. She'd tell her to bugger off but Kagura can't summon the strength to lift even a single finger and besides, if Nobume's going to offer her some portion of it then she can't really complain.

The last time Nobume cooked for her must have been back in high school or something, on one of those days when Gintoki got his head stuck in a sake bottle, then got that stuck in a trash can, and Shinpachi was busy tutoring kids down at the enrichment center. Kagura's never been big on cooking, and even then the extent of her skill involved cracking raw eggs over bowls of white rice and squirting soy sauce on the resulting gooey mess. She shakes her head roughly, pushing nostalgia stiffly into a corner of her mind where the light doesn’t reach.

Kagura kicks her legs up on the couch and folds her arms behind her head. She falls asleep thinking about broken fans, and promises, and girls.

 

-

 

_Is she awake?_

_Probably. OI KAGURA, ARE YOU AWAKE?_

Pause.

_...guess not._

_Let her sleep, she stayed up till three last night._

Gintoki grunts. _Finals, huh._

_Yeah, finals. She's been working really hard._

_Who would've thought our little devil would ever try her best at anything?_ Kagura can hear the smile in Gintoki's voice. Is he _proud_ of her? Oh boy— he is, isn't he? She's going to have to keep this moment locked in her memories forever so she can bring it up in a few years' time and laugh at him for acting like such a doting father. He refuses to consider himself a parental figure in the slightest, but anyone with a pair of good, working eyes can see that he treats them something like family.

 _Still— who falls asleep upside down and hanging off the sofa? She's still a kid at heart._ Gintoki says this gruffly, almost defensively. Kagura bites back a laugh.

_That's Kagura for you._

After that there is a stretch of silence that runs on for so long, Kagura almost thinks that they've left. She's about to doze off when—

_Hey, Shinpachi. I've got an idea._

_Mmm?_

_We've got cucumbers in the fridge, right? From yesterday's flash sale or something._

_Uhuh._ Shinpachi sounds skeptical. Kagura doesn't blame him for it. She's half a mind to sit up right there and then to save herself from whatever impending horrors await, spiraling out of the depths of Gintoki's Twisted Mind, but it's almost as though she's trapped in a thick bubble— or a room with glass walls— and can't break through. Resigning herself to her fate, she registers, with a jolt of fear, the sound of a knife on a chopping board.

_—shit, I think I nicked my finger._

Shinpachi sighs. _Do you need a band-aid for that?_

_'S okay, I'll be fine._

_If you say so._

There's some indistinct scuffling (that's meant to be discreet, Kagura can tell, but just sounds clumsy and loud), and suddenly something cold, wet, and slimy is slapped onto her forehead.

 _There we go._ Are those.. Cucumber slices?

_Gin, what are you doing?_

_I read somewhere that cucumber's good for your skin. I think._

Kagura can picture the look of utter exasperation on Shinpachi's face— brows furrowed, eyes turned to the floor, reaching up to adjust his glasses with one hand as a quiet sigh escapes his lips. At eighteen (almost nineteen, but still eighteen right _now,_ he insists), he's become impervious to the absurdities of the household and their many acquaintances, and generally eschews from calling Gintoki out on his bullshit, though from time to time the older, supposedly more responsible man's irrational behavior makes it such that he feels almost obligated to say something. This, understandably, is one of those times.

 _You think._ Someone— Shinpachi, probably, judging from the amount of pressure being applied, which is to say, practically none— gently presses another cucumber slice to her forehead. Shinpachi chuckles.

_I'm going to take a photo._

_Kagura'll kill you if she finds out, you know._

_I'm sure she wouldn't do that to an old man like me._ Gintoki's confidence is astounding and, frankly, baffling.

_Well, suit yourself. Mind if I join in?_

_Eh, but I want to be in it too!_

_There's such a thing as a selfie cam, Gin._

_...I knew that._

_Uhuh. It should be all right if we use Kagura's phone— she doesn't check it much, anyway._

Gintoki hums in agreement.

They jostle around for a bit before settling beside her. If the distinct smell of booze and old geezer is anything to go by, Gintoki's on her right, and Shinpachi her left.

_Three, two, one, cheese!_

It's purpose having been served, the phone is deposited on the sofa with a soft thud.

Shinpachi yawns. _Well, I'm going back to bed. Good night._

_Mm, I'll be going too, then._

At this point Kagura decides that she's had enough of their tomfoolery. Are they really just going to leave her here, cucumber slice-covered face and all? Rude! Inconsiderate bastards. She's going to scare the shit out of them and teach them a good lesson. Shaking the soggy cucumber slices off, she opens her eyes.

 

-

 

"You assholes, I'll—"

After blinking the light out of her eyes, Kagura registers the following:

 

a) The crisp, cool smell of cucumber is gone. Everything smells like curry.

b) She is not hanging upside-down off a worn leather sofa, but lying on a scratchy carpet that presses uncomfortably into her skin.

c) Her mouth is dry.

d) "If you don't want your curry, then I'll gladly take it."

e) Gintoki and Shinpachi are nowhere to be seen, and Nobume's face is four inches away from hers.

 

The room is drenched in sunlight that glistens like drops of honey. As she gradually regains her senses, the warm hues lose their alienish tint and the cold waters of reality wash over her in waves. ~~Gintoki and Shinpachi are gone Shinpachi promised he'd come back and pay her a visit last week (he never came)~~ Nobume is here.

Without thinking, Kagura reaches up and presses the flat of her palm against Nobume's cheek.

"You—"

"Look like you're about to cry. And the curry's going to go cold," Nobume says softly, turning into Kagura's touch. She puts her own hand on Kagura's, cool and familiar and comforting.

"No, it's not. It's too hot in here for that to happen." Kagura forces a smile. "And 'm not crying, idiot."

"I didn't say you were crying, I said you looked like you were _about_ to cry," Nobume corrects.

"Well, I won't."

Kagura rolls out from under her and searches the tabletop blindly until her fingers close around the phone. It's a red LG (Life's Good™) model from the early 2000s with dull metal shining through in places where the paint's chipped off. The worn gudetama charm clinks protestingly against the table as she slides it across the uneven surface towards her.

She flips it open with fingers that stutter like semicolons and apostrophes on woodwork surfaces with no glaze.

There's no way that photo actually exists, and even if it did, it would've been lost, vanished down the rabbit hole along with all her middle school memories when she chucked her phone out the window in a fit of anger and the memory card snapped in half. Still, no matter how hard she tries to slow the frantic rock song drum beat of her heart to the rhythm of a rolling classical piece, it refuses to comply. As the blurry photos flash by like frames in a photo reel, Kagura sees idyllic afternoons at the coffee shop, hastily-snapped photos of answer sheets and model answers, late-night escapades through the streets, and

They hadn't wanted to throw his stuff out, but Shinpachi said he'd be leaving for the next city, and Kagura would've rather died than stayed on alone in that apartment with its creaky shutters and leaky faucets and ugly (haunting) red shadows. Kagura found the stash of photographs Gintoki had kept behind the weird painting that always hung in the living room, and kept those. They got rid of everything else; salvaged what they could and put it up on eBay or Gumtree and gave the rest away.

Photographs. That's all that's left of the massive JUMP collection that once occupied a good quarter of the store room's meager space— photographs. The only existing proof of those bobbleheads that sometimes came with a double purchase of strawberry milk— photographs. The last sign that a snot-nosed man in his late twenties who forgot to take out the trash as often as he forgot to change out of his pajamas before he left the house once existed— photographs.

And that shitty old fan was the last thing they'd gone out and bought together. After that there was yelling and the sound of glass shattering in a rising crescendo and firetruck red crayon-tracks all over the floor and walls, and then there was pitch black and unfamiliar faces and empty sympathies. It was the only thing she didn’t throw away, if only because it remained fully-functional and somewhat useful even later on in her life.

In the end it turns out the photo isn't there, after all. Kagura can't say she's surprised, though she refuses to acknowledge the tiny coil of disappointment that unfurls in the pit of her belly like a tender flame. Maybe the cucumbers had never happened. Maybe doting Gin and easygoing Shinpachi had never happened. Maybe _they'd_ never happened. Maybe nothing had ever happened and everything had taken place in her head: untimely movie screening in an empty, run-down theater at four a.m. in the morning that sold only one ticket— to Kagura.

"Shinpachi called while you were asleep." Kagura jumps, startled, and turns to look at Nobume with wide eyes. "He wanted me to tell you, 'I'm sorry I couldn't make it this week, but I'll drop by on Monday. I promise'." Nobume recites the last two lines slowly as if she'd had them carefully memorized, because she's Nobume and Nobume is cautious and kind and trusting.

"Oh," Kagura responds in muted blue, averting her gaze.

"I think he still cares." Nobume's tone is neither accusatory nor assumptious.

Kagura offers her a tired smile. “Maybe he does.”

They sit in silence.

“Well, I’ve got to go,” Nobume informs her with a touch of regret. She leans forward and kisses Kagura gently on the forehead, her hands lingering on the other’s shoulders for a fraction of a second longer than really needed. Kagura smiles again, this time with a little more warmth.

Before she walks out the door, Nobume looks over her shoulder and watches her sit with her knees drawn up to her chest and her eyes on the floor. Kagura knows she’s still there, but she can’t find it in herself to look more lively for appearances’ sake. She waves at her and reaches for the spoon.

Later, Kagura finds a crisp fifty-dollar bill on the kitchen counter top.

She buys herself a new fan.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! hope ya liked it, spent a little over a week tearing my hair out over the whole premise. i tried yo. kudos and comments are cool. comments are especially cool.  
> basically what happened is i read some of asano inio's other works and acquired Feelings, and so i attempted to put these Feelings somewhere and this happened. i hope the atmosphere i wrote this with in mind got across to you guys.
> 
> have a good one


End file.
